Page 61 of Jack Frost
The few remaining wraiths are still singing, joyfully now, shrill and delighted as they circle above me. Their voices blend with a billion whispering threads attached to my consciousness—but I don't have time to listen to any of it, or to think about my new body. My sole thought is Jack. Jack.Jack.
The blue mist is still rising from his burned body, and I fling myself over it and him, as if I could press the energy back inside him. I cling to him, and I focus as hard as I can on the ice palace where I first found him—the icy cocoon in that blue, breathing room. I need to take him there, right now, and hope that he doesn't fall apart for good on the way.
But I don't know how to spiral.
Focus, Emery. Focus.
A knot begins to form in my chest—an ember of blue light, glowing stronger and stronger the harder I think of the ice palace. I nurture the glow, expanding it, feeding it, and suddenly with a blast of wild snowy wind, I'm gone—I'm spinning—focus, Emery—ice palace—I picture it as clearly as I can and Ipull, dragging together the bits of me and of Jack with all the power I now possess.
We spin onto the floor of the icy blue bedroom, and Jack is still intact. I haul him onto the bed while frantic sobs lurch from my chest. My tears are sleet, flowing down my cheeks and chin and throat.
I don't recognize Jack's face anymore. It's all burnt off. His fingers, his privates, his toes, all gone. His messy, snowy hair is gone—crispy blackened skin and raw red flesh have taken its place.
I'm crying harder now, my fingers hovering and trembling over his body. As I weep, ice builds around Jack's ruined form, encasing it fully, from the soles of his blackened feet to his blistered skull. It seals up like a coffin, and my heart cracks, a chasm wide and deep.
But then—oh, then—the room begins to pulse. Deep blue fading to white, then swelling blue again.
Like a rhythm. Like a heartbeat.
He's alive.
He's alive, and he's healing.
Auxesia failed. She didn't kill Jack, or me.
I survived. I transformed. And I saved the love of my life.
And now—that fire bitch had best run to the farthest ends of this wretched planet because I am going to finish her.
There's nothing more I can do for Jack now. I slip out of the healing room and close the door, watching the clockwork snowflakes whirr and latch, locking him in.
It will take him weeks to recover, and I don't know what he'll look like when it's done. Can his regenerative magic bring him back fromthat?
Even if he's scarred, even if he's no longer beautiful in the same way, I am his. It's the sweet, bright, shining soul of him that I love, and that same sweet soul will glow no matter what its casing looks like.
My Jack. I will love him no matter what.
But right now, Auxesia needs to be my focus. She'll be low on energy after everything she spent to take us down, so I need to strike her soon. I have to figure out where she's hiding to heal herself, and I must attack her there. But I also need to take five, and figure out who the hell I am now, and what I can do. There's got to be a mirror somewhere in this place.
As I cross the great hall, something brushes my back, and I whirl, heart jolting.
Another brush across my upper arm, near the elbow.
Oh. My. God.
It's my hair.
My hair has grown—it's waist-length now, falling in perfect snow-white waves. I tug a few locks over my shoulder, trailing my fingers through it. My fingers are pristinely shaped, slim and stone-white, with pearlescent nails. On impulse I twitch them, mentally exploring the nail beds—and five arrow-sharp icicles fly from my fingers, rocketing across the hall and arcing down to the floor, where they shatter into crystalline bits.
Cool.
Since my clothes burned away, I'm entirely naked. I need to find something to wear—something of Jack's maybe, or clothes that Kheima left behind when she dissipated. Gingerly I press my fingertips to my chest, wondering whose energy I'm carrying now. Was Kheima one of the wraiths who yielded their energy to me?
My fingers rest between my new breasts—pure swells of white flesh with tiny pale-blue tips. They're very similar to my original breasts, but a little larger and more symmetrical. Part of me revolts at the idea that I've been remade into this Greek goddess ideal of beauty; but a stronger part of me is simply glad to be alive. And yeah, I'm glad to be gorgeous. Plus it looks like I won't need to shave again, because except for my long hair, my lashes, and my eyebrows, I'm perfectly smooth all over. That is an unexpected bonus. Mentally I calculate how much time that will save me in the shower—and then I wonder if I'll even need to shower again. An experimental sniff reveals that I'm fragrantly snow-scented like Jack—permanently winter-fresh.
A grin spreads across my face, effervescent joy bubbling up inside me. I twirl in the center of the hall, and when I leap into the air, I'm buoyed up by an eddy of snow and wind. It's startling at first, and I nearly fall—but a little experimentation lets me control the flow and ebb of my own little snowstorm.
I am a goddess.
